John Watson, I Love You
by takemetoeden
Summary: "Sherlock, I... I think I'm going to move out." Sherlock is forced to put a name to these foreign emotions he has for one Doctor John Watson.
1. Because I love you, you idiot

Sherlock really is a beautiful man. He has the clearest, _bluest_ eyes I have ever seen. That and his porcelain skin are in stark contrast to his dark, unruly curls. His lips have the most defined cupid's bow I have ever seen. They aren't red like rose petals, and only in that, his gender, and his intellect, does he differ from Snow White. No, his lips are a delicate, pale pink. It's the color I'd imagine pink ice to be.

I wonder what they would taste like? Would they taste sweet, like icing? Like tea? Would they be warm and soft, or hard and cold? Would they darken in color if kissed? Would there be traces of his toothpaste? Would they taste differently from his skin? I wonder what he tastes like. Bloody hell, I would love to run my tongue down his throat, over his collarbone...

"John, you're staring at me."

Shit. I totally was. (_God, his voice is so deep, I can feel it in my sternum, I want to drown in it..._) I look away and try to hide the flush I feel warming my cheeks. I don't know why, he's not looking. He's still lying on his back on the couch, his eyes closed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. How did he know I was staring? Oh God, I still am...

"Is there something you'd like to say?"

"No, no. Just... Lost in thought."

Rubbish excuse. But I suppose it's true... I _was_ lost in thought...

"Hmm. You've been 'lost in thought' quite a lot lately."

Goddamn. Why does he have to see through **everything?**

"Yeah, I suppose I have been."

"Care to share?"

Oh God, this is it... I don't want to do this... But I _have _to.

"Well, actually, I'm trying to predict your reaction."

He opens his gorgeous eyes and turns them on me.

"My reaction to what?"

I look down into my lap, unwilling to be disabled by his gaze.

"Sherlock, I... I think I'm going to move out."

"What?"

I look up at him. He's surprised, angry, hurt even. Oh, God, I can't do this...

"Yeah, it's just... A little much..."

_A little much, constantly keeping my hands and other body parts off of you, constantly having to remind myself to actually listen to the words coming out of your lips, reminding myself to __stay an acceptable distance from you, things like that._

"_A little- _John, you're lying."

Sherlock sits up. He faces me, leaning forward over his knees, penetrating me with his gaze. I lean away instinctively and I shake my head.

"No, I just... I'm sorry, but I don't think I can quite handle your... Pace of life."

His eyes narrow, still disbelieving. _Oh God, please believe the lie... _

Apparently, he does, because the suspicion and skepticism on his face vanishes and is replaced by hurt and anger. _I'm so sorry, Sherlock..._

"Well..." He clears his throat. "Certainly. If you feel... If you think..." He clears his throat again. He stands and goes to busy himself with something. I drop my head with a sigh before pulling myself to my feet and going to my room. Might as well start packing...

Once safely inside my room, exhaustion suddenly takes over me. I sway dizzily and sit on the edge of my bed. _Am I making a mistake?_

I find that I'm crying, genuinely crying.

Wow.

Oh God, I've got such a headache. And I definitely fell asleep fully clothed. Right, there's nothing for it. I pack up the rest of my belongings, which really isn't that difficult. I travel light, generally.

If I'm lucky, I'm up before he is. Either way, I've got to get out sometime. However, as soon as I swing my door open, there he is. Was he waiting for me?

"John."

He turns to me and stops his pacing. He was _pacing._

I clear my throat.

"Yes?"

"John, I just want to say that whatever I have done to upset you, I am terribly sorry. I... I want you to stay." I just stare at him in surprise. "Please stay."

There's such a vulnerability in his eyes, such blatant pleading, that I almost succumb to it.

"No, Sherlock, it's not anything you've done. I told you. I just... Don't think it's..."

God, I don't want to lie to him anymore. So I shut up.

Sherlock's face falls.

"I see..." He sits down. "It's just... Me."

"What? No! Well... Yes, but... You mustn't think of it that way."

"It's the only way to think of it." _Wrong._ "I understand, John." _Wrong._ "Nobody can withstand being in my presence very long, it's just... An affect I have on people, I suppose..." His voice is so soft. It's barely a whisper. "Right... No, fine... Everybody leaves." This last part is not meant for me. He whispers it under his breath.

He is slumped over in his chair, staring at his hands. He looks so pitiful. I sigh.

"No, Sherlock, it's not that. You're wrong. Please, just... Don't take this personally..."

_Don't take it personally, Sherlock, it's just that I want to do obscene things to you almost every second we're together, and I know you don't feel the same way about me._

He says nothing.

Goddamnit.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, it's not your fault!" I go to him and kneel before him, looking up into his face. I realize too late that I have taken his shoulders in my hands, and almost instantly regret it. He looks at me. No, he looks _into _me. "Please understand." _I'm begging you, _please.

"Isn't this about how... _Intolerable_... It is to live with me?" He's getting angry now. He's hurt. God, he thinks I'm just like everyone else, always leaving him... _Everybody leaves_, he had said. Oh, God...

"No, no, I-"

"Then _what _is it, John?" He stands, and I stand with him. His strong fingers grip my upper arms and forces my back against the wall, knocking a few books off the top of a pile. "Hmm? If it's not because I'm the _worst_ flatmate anyone could hope to have, or that I'm a sociopath, or because I'm unfeeling and have no _heart_-"

I snap.

"IT'S BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT!"

Fuck.

We stand there panting for a few moments as he processes this. I can see it on his face. My face and ears are hot. His eyebrows unfurrow, his fingers slacken, and the angry lines around his eyes and mouth smooth out into a more shocked expression.

"What?"

I swallow. No turning back now.

"You heard me. You're constantly on my mind, I can hardly concentrate on the cases. You've noticed. And I know..." I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat. "I know you don't feel the same about me, so if I am rendered useless to you by my ridiculous infatuation, then the only thing left for me to do here is torture myself, and I just _can't do that, Sherlock_." I tear myself from his grasp, not wanting to be faced with those wide, doe eyes anymore. He drops his hands, but remains frozen as I try to catch my breath. Now _I'm _the one pacing.

I can almost hear his mind whirring, trying to catch up. I have a sudden, hysterical urge to giggle, but smother it. Dots are dancing in front of my eyes, I'm breathing too fast, so I sit and lean over my knees, my face in my hands.

_Now what?_

Now I leave, of course. I can't stand to be in his presence for a second longer. It's too quiet, I'm driving myself spare as I try to figure out what he's thinking about. I stand up and go to collect my things. I make it halfway down the steps before he finally speaks.

"I'm... Sorry, John." I turn to look up at him, exasperation clear on my face, I'm sure.

"Sorry for what? Being so damn gorgeous?" I give him a weak smile. His jaw tightens.

I leave.


	2. Why?

_"IT'S BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT!"_

The phrase still rings through my head an hour later as I sit – alone – in my flat.

John loves me.

John _loves_ me.

John loves... _Me._

For God's sake, _why_?

There is nothing at all about me to love. It's apparent to anyone with a brainstem. I'm impulsive, incorrigible, _everybody_ hates me.

Except John, apparently.

_Why!_

I get up and pace. It's driving me mad. _Why _would he love _me,_ of all people? Why not Sarah? She's much more deserving. She's compassionate, caring, beautiful... Everything I'm not.

My entire high school hated me. Everyone I work with hates me. I'm sure Lestrade hates me, even though he's never said it. He needs me for his work, he doesn't want me. Nobody does.

Except John.

I growl and fist my hands in my own hair. It makes no sense! Which is a very, VERY uncharacteristic thought for me to have.

Sherlock Holmes, unable to figure out a puzzle. God help me.

John is a mystery. I never understand why he does anything.

Like _loving me._

_Love me?_

WHY?

He has complimented me on my induction before, like in the cab when I told him about his life. Except I missed the fact that Harry is his _sister_. Always something...

Or the time I explained the obvious with the woman in pink. Honestly, his were the first compliments I had heard from anyone beside my mother, and she had always had a sort of sadness in her eyes when she told me how brilliant I was. Like she knew everyone would hate me for it.

So I chose a life of unattachment. I have never dated anyone, not that John needs to know that.

Wait, what? What do I care if John knows I am completely without experience in the field of relationships? I reluctantly hinted at it once when he was inquiring after my love life. 'Not really my area,' I said. To the question 'do you have a girlfriend?'

Do I value John's opinion? Yes, of course. He is my second set of eyes for every case. Do I value his opinion about _me_? Obviously, as demonstrated by my rather violent reaction earlier. I had grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him against a wall out of anger. I was upset at the thought that he didn't like me.

How... _Childish_.

Why should I care if he likes me or not? Nobody likes me. (_Except John._) I have no friends. (_Except John._)

Oh, I'm being ridiculous. John is _gone_, and there's nothing I can do about it. He _left._

Am I giving up? On a _puzzle_? The very thing I _live _for?

I stop pacing.

_No._

* * *

It wasn't difficult to find where John had gone. His old apartment was still unoccupied, and it seemed logical. I was right. As usual.

However, this is the hard part. I stand outside his door, wringing my hands and trying to think of what to say.

_John, I'd like you to move back in because really I have some inexplicable feelings for you and nobody but you has ever loved me._

_ John, I love you, please move back in with me._

Whoa. What? Do I? Oh my God, do I love John?

_John, I love you, please move back in with me._

It hasn't even been a week. Surely I could take a week to assess my feelings, and to give myself a chance to move on.

_Or give up._

No. I know what I want. I want John.

_John, I love you, please move back in with me._

I have never loved. How am I to know if this is love or not?

_John, I love you._

I went back to the flat, supremely disappointed in myself, having accomplished nothing by this visit.

* * *

Sherlock spent almost half an hour outside my door, pacing.

Why didn't he come in?

_Why would he?_

I had scared him off, what would he have to say to me?

He hates me.


	3. Gorgeous

A week later, and I am no closer to knowing how I feel about John Watson.

_John Watson, I love you._

I keep saying it over and over in my mind, contemplating it, weighing it in my mind for truth.

I give an exasperated sigh and stand to pace. No cases of note have arisen in this past week. It's been miserably boring. There are 37 bullet holes in Mrs. Hudson's wall. She is most unhappy with me.

I am going to drive myself mad if I don't find John _now._

And so I don my coat and scarf, and am on the sidewalk within a matter of seconds. Within twenty minutes, I am outside his door. He hasn't moved house yet.

He was waiting for me.

I swallow my fear as I pull off my gloves and rap my knuckles against the door. I hardly have any time to begin my habitual pacing before he swings the door open. His hair is ruffled and his clothing is wrinkled. A quick glance behind him, and I notice his sheets are wrinkled as well. I woke up him.

He must have run to the door.

Dear, sweet John...

"Sherlock."

He is not quite awake yet, and good Lord, he is so bloody _gorgeous_.

"John."

_What do I say!_ It's unusual for me to be at a loss for words, but here I stand, gaping like an idiot, with nothing but air coming out of my mouth. John clears his throat and shifts his weight.

"Can I... Can I help you?"

_Yes, please move back in with me. I love you, John._

My mind suddenly slows considerably. I really _look_ at his face, at the hope he doesn't want to feel, that he's trying to hide, at the surprise and the unkemptness about him. And in that moment, I _know._

I take one long step to close the distance between us, take his head in my hands, and press my lips against his.

_John Watson, I love you._

He is taken aback. A small sound of surprise sounds in his throat. Could it be that he has moved on within a _week_?

I pull back to assess his reaction. The plainest emotion on his face is shock. Shock and... Something else. Something bright and blazing, and the hope he tried not to feel comes swimming to the surface. We stand in silence for a moment, unsure of what should happen.

Then, without any change in his expression whatsoever, John takes hold of my coat lapels and pulls me into him again. The force of it sends me stumbling and we both take a few steps into his apartment. He closes the door behind me and I am forced back against it.

God, he's just _throwing _me around. I love it.

I am sent even more recklessly tumbling over the edge of control as he pulls his mouth off mine, and inhales the breath straight from my mouth before closing the gap again. Suddenly, his hands are pushing my coat off my shoulders and it falls heavily to the floor.

Driven by a need to be in control, I seize his upper arms and turn us both around. His back is now against the door, and I am pressing myself as close to him as I can get. Yes, this is exactly what I want.

John does something with his hips and I am suddenly explicitly aware of his erection against mine. A moan breaks in my throat and my fingers start working at unbuttoning his shirt. His hands fist in my hair and, ever the soldier, he starts walking me backward.

There is heat everywhere, _John _everywhere, and my fingers just finish unbuttoning his shirt when the back of my calves meet the edge of his bed, and I am pushed back onto it. My eyes drink in his torso from his molded stomach all the way up to his face and he sheds his shirt. For a second, I am consumed within his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, this beautiful man, is sitting before me on the edge of _my_ bed, his hair ruffled from _my_ fingers' abuse, and a look in his eyes that is entirely too disabling. It's so _vulnerable_, so full of lust, uncertainty, and yet _trust_...

I carefully lean down and kiss him, as tenderly as I dare, and am rewarded with his fingers gripping my hips. I push him back and climb atop him. He helpfully scoots back to place us more at the center of the bed.

_God,_ he tastes amazing. It's like nothing I have a name for. It's the flavor of the scent of his jacket, of his scarf. Nothing smells – or _tastes –_ like Sherlock.

My fingers are eagerly undoing his silk shirt, and suddenly I want to taste _all_ of him. My lips break away from his and move down his jaw to his neck, his shoulder, his chest. As soon as my feverish fingers finish the last button, I push his shirt off to expose his entire torso. His shirt is unceremoniously tossed to the floor.

My lips move back up to his collarbone, and I bite down gently, drawing a gasp from him. I pull some of his skin into my mouth and suck until he whimpers my name. His hands on my hips move around to the front of my trousers, and he begins to undo the button and zip.

So many times I have thought about this, and not one of my fantasies does this justice. His scent is heady, his skin so warm and _present_, and as I travel back up to his lips, the feel of his lips on mine, the flavor of his tongue, is just so much _better_ than I had imagined. He slides my trousers down agonizingly slow, until I finally take over and kick them the rest of the way off. He turns us both over and I'm thrilled anew with the feeling of his bare chest against mine...

* * *

I have no idea what I'm doing. This must be what an out-of-body experience feels like. Everything is just sensations, just John, just his warmth, his hands, _him._ There's no coherent thoughts, but my mind is going a million miles a minute. There's just want, want, want, a burning desire in the pit of my stomach that is wound tighter and tighter, the closer I get to him. _Closer...!_

His hands slide down my chest and he gives the same treatment to my trousers, and all of a sudden, the both of us are clad in only our boxers.

As I said, I have no idea what I'm doing.

Thankfully, John seems to know his way around, because he does that _thing_ with his hips again, and the resulting friction produces a moan from us both. In that moment, every thought of uncertainty flees and the lust completely takes over. I _have _to have him.

He must feel similarly, because his fingers breach the waistline of my boxers and are sliding down my hips. I notice that I start giving breathy moans every time I come up for air, and in one instance when our lips are not connected, he whispers my name.

* * *

Through the haze of lust, I realize that Sherlock is most likely a virgin. This is startling information for me, and I decide I must ask him about this when speech has returned. However, I don't treat him any gentler. I would if I could, I would treat him like he was breakable, fragile, but I just can't stop my fingers from bruising his beautifully flawless skin, and can't truly muster any sort of regret for it, because with each bruise I paint on him, a delicious moan is pulled from his lips.

I roll both of us over again once his entire, gorgeous body is gloriously exposed, and he takes the opportunity to rid me of the only fabric preventing me from feeling _all _of him...

_Oh, God..._

I gasp and pull my mouth away to look straight down into Sherlock's clear, grey-blue eyes. He seems to think I am expecting him to say something, so he swallows and says...

"John Watson... I love you."

I feel his heartbeat through my chest. Our hearts are racing in perfect synchronization. I lean down slowly and press my lips to his.

"And I love you, Sherlock Holmes." I whisper into his mouth before my right hand steals between our two sweating bodies. I feel his pulse spike right before I take him in hand. A beautiful curse breaks on his lips.

* * *

_This_ is what I want. John. I want John. All of him. All the time. Good God, I will never get anything done...

That thought is hastily pushed from my mind as I am overcome with the sensation of John's warm hand, delivering its attentions to the part of me begging for it most.

It had to be at least seventeen years since I last took myself in hand. What's the point? But all those years of zero sexual intercourse are making me very sensitive and – dare I say it – _easy_. I succumb to the pleasure coursing through me in a matter of seconds.

If my mind weren't going so slowly, I would be embarrassed right now. Surely John must know that...

* * *

He's a virgin. I knew it. God, how adorable. I could tell from the way he writhed under my ministrations, his grip on my upper arms, how fast he came... It was only a bloody handjob.

I try to conceal my grin and fail. He notices.

"Don't laugh at me," I say breathlessly, but there's a smile threatening on my face. He chuckles and kisses my neck. I had thrown my head back in the throes of my orgasm, leaving my neck completely vulnerable. I take a few deep breaths to calm my heart as John cleans up.

The git's still bloody grinning, and I've got a mind to wipe that smile off his face. The problem (that I adore) about John is that I never know what he'll do. He's unpredictable. However, I think I know enough to get him to stop smiling like such an idiot...

He's lying next to me, looking at me, so it's not difficult to lean over and kiss him. He responds with a hand on the back of my head. I try to inconspicuously rest a hand on his chest, but as soon as my fingers come into contact with his warm skin, his fingers fist in my hair. No stealth when his senses are all on high alert, is there?

* * *

I think Sherlock was trying to be sneaky, but all my nerve endings are buzzing, so there's really nothing for it. I wasn't going to make him do anything to reciprocate, as new as he is to all this, but he seems to have other ideas, because his warm hand is sliding lower and lower, over my abdomen, and adrenaline spikes into my bloodstream once again.

A hysterical thought passes through my mind and a giggle almost bubbles through my lips.

This is _Sherlock Holmes_. The world's only consulting detective. And I'm naked in bed with him.

_And he is about to get me off._

Such a strange occurrence.

I draw in a sharp breath as his hand finds purchase on my unattended cock. _Oh, God..._

* * *

He thinks it's so funny that I am a virgin, but here he is, slipping out of control himself, at my hand. Literally.

And hell yes am I going as slow as I can, as delicately as I can. I intend to pull every single agonized moan from his lips as I can. I run the pad of my thumb as gently over his tip as I can, and he groans so beautifully.

"God, Sherlock, _please...!_"

I smile with satisfaction. He is _begging _me. I oblige and take him more firmly in hand.

I don't think I could ever, _ever _get tired of this. Of reducing my army doctor to pleading, moaning, writhing putty in my hands.

If he loved me this whole time, why had we been doing anything _other_ than this?

It took longer, but I expected it to. He was not as inexperienced as I. And when he finally succumbed to my insistent hand, it was a beautiful thing.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock and I are walking out of my temporary abode with my two suitcases in tow. His hair is still a bit messed up, his clothes thrown on haphazardly, and his face is still beautifully flushed. He is so damn gorgeous.

We take a cab back, and it's like I'm coming home. After a week of being sure I would never see this place again or ever see Sherlock again, I have been proven wrong twice.

Mrs. Hudson gives me a hug and makes us tea, and we just sit in the living room, like a newlywed couple before unpacking. We are both smiling like idiots.

It's wonderful.


	4. Your Move

"No. Look closer. Try again."

"Is he a..."

"Come on, John, this one's easy."

"A... Businessman?"

"No, no, no, look at his _hair_!"

"His hair... Is... Quite short..."

"And...?"

"Close-cut... His face is clean-shaven..."

"Good..."

"And he's got a sort of funny... Tan line 'round his neck, inside his collar, what's that about?"

Sherlock sighs.

"Don't ask me, John. That's against the rules."

"He's wearing a wrist brace on his right wrist..."

"Which could be because...?"

"He might have sprained it."

"_Might_ have. More likely, it's carpal tunnel."

"What? How d'you reckon it's carpal tunnel?"

"Not the point, John. Keep looking. You're almost there."

"Okay... Erm... Glasses sort of... Rectangular... Orderly... Blimey, almost everything about him is rather orderly. Hang on... There's... Nothing in his pockets. He's not carrying anything. What's he doing at a mall without a wallet or a mobile?"

"Good, good. Nearly there."

"Sort of... Stately manner. Sitting up straight, but... Some weariness in the lines of his face..."

Sherlock turns to look at me curiously. For the time being, I pretend not to notice, but I have become rather good at noticing...

"What is he doing here?" I ask this quietly, more to myself.

Then, just like that, it hits me.

He's a retired soldier. Almost just like me. Where I was mending wounds, he would have been inflicting them on the other side.

I turn to look at Sherlock.

"You cheeky little blighter." He grins. "How long was that then?"

He looks at his watch.

"About... Twelve minutes."

"Damn..." That's twelve minutes we could have spent doing...

"Fancy some lunch?"

He stands to leave.

"Here? At the food court in a shopping mall?"

"No, of course not." He offers his hand to me, but I'm waiting for a destination with narrowed eyes. He smiles wickedly and my heart stutters a beat. "Fancy seafood?"

Still suspicious, I take his hand and stand. My heart almost drops when his hand drops mine.

"Where to?"

"Ever heard of Yashin Sushi?"

"The... The one in Kensington?"

"That's the one."

"We're going all the way to _Kensington _for lunch?"

"Problem?"

I narrow my eyes.

"You have business there, haven't you?"

He smiles.

"Very good, John. Now come along."

My grin mirrors his and we start off together.

The past few weeks have been... Good. Excessive amounts of lovemaking, and Sherlock had gotten exceptionally good at... All of that. He is incredibly good with his hands...

I feel my face flush and drag my mind out of the gutter. Sherlock notices this and grins. Dammit. Am I really _that _transparent?

* * *

John clears his throat, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He is flushed into his ears. I smile, finally realizing where his mind is traveling in this maddening silence. He can be so difficult to read sometimes. But other times...

My invitation to lunch was genuine, and we did eat sushi. John thought it would be funny to try to feed me with chopsticks across the table. It was the most adolescent thing I had done in a while. It was lovely.

We are making our way to the warehouse I was summoned to, walking through the chilly night, when there is a lull in our conversation. I glance sideways at John, and notice the stiff set of his shoulders. He's... Nervous?

"John, what's wrong?"

"What? Sorry, nothing..."

_Liar._

"Doesn't sound like nothing."

He sighs, a white puff in the cold air.

"Sherlock, do you still consider yourself married to your work?"

I stop walking and round on him. He grimaces slightly and shifts his weight. I narrow my eyes.

"I'm... Still setting my priorities straight."

He looks down. Would he rather I lied?

"Right, I see." I sigh.

"John..."

"No, it's fine, you... Take all the time you need." He lifts his eyes to me and gives me a smile that does not reach his eyes.

Acting on impulse (something I do more easily around him), I take his shoulders and guide his back to the nearest wall in the alley we are in. I do not hesitate to crush my lips to his.

An apology, a promise, a kiss.

Christ, when did I become such a romantic?

* * *

Sherlock's kiss is sweet and passionate, and my hands find his face of their own accord. However, the kiss does not progress. It is smoldering warm, not fire blazing. He pulls back and looks into my eyes fiercely.

"I love you, John Watson. For now, that's everything I have for you."

I nod and swallow. He searches my eyes for a few more moments before releasing me and starting back down the alleyway, a wicked grin playing at his lips.

* * *

I'm not ready to let my mind riddle _that_ out just yet, so as I walk, I leave the mystery behind and focus on my work for now. The click of my shoes against the cobblestone echoes off the walls, and I don't realize until I reach the end of it that there is no second set of footsteps.

I turn, brow furrowed, to look back down the alleyway, wondering what John was doing.

He isn't in the alley.

Panic spikes in my ribcage, but I don't let it show on my face.

"John?"

The name echoes down the alley, but there is no reply. An impolite word slips from my lips.

Just then, my mobile rings. No, it's not my mobile. It's the pink phone. It is still in my coat pocket.

It's a text. I impatiently pull my glove off with my teeth and unlock the phone to read the text.

"You're no fun when you're ignoring me. Your move, gorgeous."

Number blocked.

Of course I know who it is. I grit my teeth together.

_Moriarty._


	5. Whatever Moriarty Wants

Oh God, there's pain in my temple. Fancy that, it's the same temple from the time I was nabbed by the Chinese mafia.

What is it? Do I have a sign on my forehead that says "abduct me"?

I groan and lift my head. I am tied to a chair – ropes? No. Chains.

Bit over the top. Must be Moriarty.

It's poorly lit, but as I look around, I realize it's an office. Hasn't got windows, or any furniture for that matter. Where the bloody hell am I?

Fantastic.

I blink tightly against the pain, and hear a chuckle from behind me. I groan as I recognize it.

"I really hate you."

"Tut tut, is that any way to speak to your host?"

Moriarty in the flesh, walks around into my vision. He's grinning like... Well, like a psychopath. Pacific and cheerful.

"Yeah, 'spose not. Mind telling me why I'm here?"

He shrugs.

"'Cause I had you brought here."

I give a mirthless chuckle.

"So what is this, interrogation? Torture?"

He screws up his face like a child.

My stomach drops as I consider the next option on the list.

"Bait?"

He smiles happily.

"More like... Insurance. You couldn't honestly believe you'd have anything I want."

"I've got Sherlock." It's out of my mouth before I can think about it.

His smile disappears and is replaced by an expression far more dangerous.

"Not for long."

He turns and walks out of the room, and I know there's no point in saying anything more, so I watch him go.

"Toodle-oo!" He calls before the door slams shut.

"Oh, Sherlock..." I sigh under my breath.

* * *

"He's _got John_, Lestrade. You can't honestly expect me to wait around while you and your little team run around playing hide-and-seek."

Lestrade sighs.

"We're doing the best we can, Sherlock."

"Well, it's not enough."

I tear out of his office before I do anything violent. I don't know where I'm going, I just know it's _away_ from this unnecessary place.

I'm just walking and muttering angrily until I find myself at our flat. I sigh and sit on the couch. Unable to stay still, I stand again to pace. A frustrated growl tears from my lips.

It was then that I decided to pull the pink mobile out again. No new texts. I sigh, sit, and open a new message.

What the hell am I supposed to _say_!

'What have you done with John?'

Delete. He kidnapped him, obviously.

'Where is he?'

What do I expect him to reply with? An invitation to tea?

'What do you want?'

Ah, the heart of the problem. I click send.

I hardly have any time to regret sending that. He must have been staring at his mobile.

'You.'

Of course. I sigh.

'Where?'

* * *

I am trying my best not to worry myself into a frenzy. It won't do me any good, but I am uncomfortable and the last thing I want is for Sherlock to walk through that door.

Okay, maybe I want to see him a _little,_ but as soon as the relief flooded through me, it would instantly be broken by... I dunno, Moriarty hurting him... _Killing_ him...

Now stop it. I'm being ridiculous. Just calm down... Oh God, I hear footsteps...

The door swings open, and in walks Moriarty. He's grinning like an idiot.

"Guess who's coming to safe his damsel in distress?"

I groan and squeeze my eyes together.

"Whatever you do to him-"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to hurt him." I look at him incredulously.

"Yes, you are."

"Yeah, alright, I am." He's so bloody chipper. I feel like I'm going to vomit.

"Should be fun." He smiles and walks out of the room, hands in pockets.

The door slams shut.

"Shit."


	6. Moriarty Gets

I did indeed meet Moriarty where he said to. I took the bait. I went off on my own again. Lestrade would hate me, if he didn't already.

And here I am, unease in the pit of my stomach, standing in the streetlight as my breath shows in the cool night air. It's always cold in London.

I see his silhouette appear against the Thames, and my head inclines just a bit. As soon as he steps into the light, I see his face. He's smiling.

"Look at you, out and about. What's a charming thing like you doing in a place like this?"

"What have you done with John?"

The smile fades and he sighs melodramatically.

"Must you _always_ spoil the fun?"

Maybe I could play along. The ball does certainly seem to be in his court.

"Well, I suppose not. How are you this evening?" His smile returns.

"Lovely, and yourself?"

"Could be better."

"Yes, your little... _Pet_."

Huh. I didn't think that approach would work.

He saunters towards me until I can feel his warm breath on my face.

"What is your relationship with John Watson?" He enunciates his name slowly.

"I don't know." I say honestly. I glance right, down the bridge we are on. I feel his eyes locked on mine, so I look back. He is studying me.

"Really?"

Is that an undertone of anger? Frustration?

"What is it you want exactly? There's no way you're simply going to let him walk free, so out with it." I am getting rather impatient.

"I told you." He takes another step towards me, and the toes of his shoes touch mine. Oh. "I want _you._" I swallow.

"Jim?"

"I'm not used to competing with another for someone's attentions. I admit, I might have gone a bit overboard, but..." His eyes are roving over my face as he speaks. This is not good. "I have a mind to think you're worth it." Definitely not good.

And oh God, he's leaning towards me, so slowly, just slightly, and I suddenly lose the ability to speak. This is very, very bad...

His lips almost reach mine before I find my voice again.

"Jim, I..."

He kisses me.

My mind kicks into hyperdrive. He tastes nothing like John. His kissing pattern is different. I am shocked to find I am kissing him back.

With a gasp, I pull myself away, a few steps away.

"Jim, you can't just... You're not... You're _mad..._" I know I'm pacing, but I can't think of anything else to do. I have to walk to talk. "You're... You're _jealous_ of John? Why? I... I can't even understand _him_ loving me, let alone anyone at all, and now _you..._ I just can't..." He lets me pace as I think aloud.

I stop pacing, facing the Thames, as I realize what he must want in return for John.

A soft "_oh..._" slips from my lips. He chuckles.

"Yes, _oh_. Took you long enough."

I look down at the water, not knowing at all what to say or do now. He said he wants _me_.

"Jim, I can't give you what you want."

"Hmm... That's a shame... 'Cause then I can't give you back your doctor."

I round on him. I'm angry now.

"You _will _give John back to me, or-"

"Or what?"

Indeed, _or what?_

I don't know.

My jaw snaps shut. I don't like this. I don't like it at all. I should have just remained oblivious. All these _emotions_...

"I think you'll find, Sherlock, that I am the one holding the cards here." He steps up to me again. He is almost as tall as I. "And you _will_ give me what I want in return for what _you_ want." I grit my teeth together. I have no back-up plan. Which is unusual for me. He steals a hand inside the side of my jacket, cold through my shirt onto my rib. He grins at my sharp intake of breath. "We're going to play this _my _way."

* * *

Unwillingly, I am led by foot and by cab to a nondescript hotel on the outer edge of London. All the while, I am struggling to formulate a plan, a way out, something I might have missed... Is there any other way I could get John back? I have no idea where he is. I have a way to find out, sitting right next to me in the cab.

Once we reach the room, Moriarty goes to the armchair in the corner and strips off his jacket. He then turns to look at me.

"Well, are you just going to stand there all night?"

I say nothing to this. My eyes narrow. He sighs and approaches me again.

"You're no fun at all."

He pulls my scarf over my head and tosses it unceremoniously behind him. It lands on the edge of the seat of the chair where he set his jacket. I stare at it as he walks around me like a predator. He pulls my jacket off and tosses it as well. I don't like this at all...

He walks back around in front of me, and his eyes fix on the front of my shirt. I notice that his fingers tremble just the slightest bit as he undoes my buttons. My eyebrows furrow.

"Jim, are you alright?" I realize I sound as though I'm concerned for his well-being.

"Hm? Me? I'm fine. I'm _buzzing_." He grins as he pulls my shirt out of my pants to finish unbuttoning them. I look down at his hands, still trembling.

"You're shaking."

"Yes, well..." He pushes my shirt off of my shoulders and leans in to plant a kiss on the side of my neck. I don't move. "Not every day you have _Sherlock Holmes_ completely at your mercy." His lips move up to my ear as he says this, and I can't quite resist a shiver that runs up my spine. I swallow.

He notices this, and I feel him smile against my ear. He then proceeds to unbutton his own shirt. He moves his lips to kiss me again, and I let him. He pulls away when he removes his shirt, and I say,

"Isn't there another way?"

It sounds much more desperate and raw than I intend.

"No, you see, you're enjoying this." His hand finds purchase on a very indecent part of me, and I gasp. "And I really, _really _want this." He almost moans this.

_Oh, no..._

I get that same feeling like I'm tipping over the edge of control, a very dangerous place to be, and I hear my own ragged breathing in my ear. This is completely unfair in so many ways. But he was right, if I'm honest with myself. Right now, with his hand firmly where it is, there is nothing that I want more than to claim all of this man...

"Jim..."

He kisses me again and moves to unfasten my trousers. I almost can't stop myself from seizing the sides of his neck and kissing him back.

His movements become feverish in pace, and my rational mind has become a quiet murmur in the back of my mind. Lust is such a new feeling for me, it completely rules my mind.

I walk him back to the bed and before I can think otherwise of it, I am unfastening his trousers and removing them.

"Oh, _Sherlock..._" He moans.

My hands begin to move of their own accord, and I realize that I have plunged my hand into his pants when he moans "_yes!_" as if he has succeeded in doing something. Of course, that something is undoing my self-control, but I can't bring myself to resist. I am too far gone.

His hands find my hips and he's quickly shedding my pants. Once we are both entirely skin against skin, his hand clumsily reaches for the bedside table, which knocks down the telephone, and he grabs something. I can hear the dialtone and he is opening something with his hand...

Before I can bring my head up to see what he's doing, he has dropped it and his hand seizes my manhood. My gasp is more of a hiss, because his hand is so _cold_, and it seems to be coated in something...

Oh, Lord.

I realize what he's doing and the panic in my mind pumps even _more _adrenaline into my system. I quickly note that panicked and aroused are not a good combination.

He lifts his knees and begins guiding me into him, when he says,

"Moan for me, Sherlock..."

Just then, I breach into him, and a rather loud moan does indeed sound low in my throat. It is accompanied by his gasp, and I see spots.

It feels like nothing I've ever felt before. It's like... Warmth and intimacy and trust, and the thought _'I wish it was John...' _runs through my head.

For an instant.

And then he is pulling me deeper inside of him, and yet another moan is drawn from my lips. All thoughts of anything but sensation flees from my mind, and I _have_ to move. I begin pumping my hips into him, and his hips quickly pick up my pace.

At one point, amidst the sweat and moans and creaking bed, Jim gives a particularly beautiful moan, and his fingers grasp my forearms tightly. I quickly discover exactly how to duplicate that sound with just the right position, and he is nearly _forced_ to take himself in hand.

In all honesty, I think it's the sounds he's making, the way he writhes beneath me, the look on his face as he comes, that sends me over the edge.

Moriarty wins this round.


	7. Promise You'll Still Love Me

I'm contemplating what Moriarty could possibly want when the door opens. In walks the man in question, accompanied by...

"Sherlock."

He looks ruffled and displeased. He gives me almost a sheepish glance, but it's mixed with frustration and anger. He walks in, and I throw a panicked look in Moriarty's direction.

"Sherlock, no, it's a trap-"

"I know, John. I..." He sighs. "I know." He kneels behind me and begins undoing my chains, seemingly with a key he's been given. Moriarty is grinning smugly, and I give him a questioning glance.

"Is that it? You're just going to let me go?"

"I got what I wanted."

Sherlock rips my chains free with a little more force than necessary. I sit, baffled, as I am released and the binds fall to the floor.

"Come on, John." Sherlock is standing before me, expectant. I sit staring up at him for a moment, and his expression grows impatient. He shifts his weight. "John."

"I don't understand."

Sherlock's jaw clenches. He reaches down and lifts me up by my arms. He begins to walk out.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows as he watches Sherlock slide past him, studiously not looking at the man. He then turns his attention to me.

"What did that accomplish?" I hear myself ask. He just smiles in the way madmen do. As soon as it's apparent I'll get no reply, I hasten to catch up with Sherlock. We catch a cab home.

* * *

"Sherlock, what happened?" John asks as soon as the door closes behind us.

"I was under the impression that I rescued you." I hear the sardonic tone to my voice, but can't make myself stop. I'm so pissed at myself and at damn _Moriarty..._

"No, Sherlock, you know what I mean."

I hang my coat and scarf up, then turn to give him a frustrated glare.

"I might have just saved your life, you could be thanking me instead of having a fit."

We stand in silence for a moment. I can feel my words echoing in the air, and I see his face changing. Softening.

"You're right." He says quietly.

He steps close to me, takes my face in his cold hands, and kisses me gently. My jaw clenches. I must taste foreign to John. I must taste like Moriarty.

John, however, fails to notice this. I was banking on this, and relief breaks in my chest. But only a little.

"Thank you." He whispers against my lips. He is looking straight up into my eyes and it's almost painful being under his penetrating gaze. I nod and break out of his grasp before I start obviously avoiding his eyes.

I sit on the couch, and he clears his throat awkwardly. I know he's got questions – or one in particular – but I don't address it. I don't want to answer it.

"So..." He pulls off his coat and slings it across the back of the couch before sitting next to me. There is a few centimeters between us.

I recognize this silence as awkward. I sigh and get up.

"Good night, John."

"Wait, Sherlock..." He stands and lifts a hand as if to reach out to me, but eventually drops it.

"Yes...?"

"I..." He seems to search for words. He gives up with a sigh. "Good night."

I go to bed.

* * *

Sherlock is definitely avoiding something, but he's just so emotionally unbalanced right now. I don't want to get into a row with him.

I miss him.

As I lay in bed, trying desperately to drown in unconsciousness, the pink phone lights up. It's a text.

_Have you told him yet? -JM_

I erase it and turn over.

* * *

There are a few more cases over the next week, but Sherlock solves them all over the phone as soon as he gets the call. He doesn't seem as passionate about it. And Moriarty seems to have backed off. There's no mind-bending, only-Sherlock-could-solve-it cases right now. And we haven't spoken about the... Thing.

It's driving me spare, the way Sherlock will avoid my gaze constantly, the way we hardly exchange words at all. And mostly the way we haven't so much as brushed fingers lately. I feel like I've given up territory I fought hard for. I don't like it.

When I walk in, nervous but determined, Sherlock is laying on the couch, with his eyes closed. I know he's awake, though, because of the frustrated crease between his eyebrows.

I sit down and clear my throat. He does not speak.

"Sherlock?"

He still doesn't not speak, but he shifts to let me know he's listening.

"I just... I wanted to talk..."

"Then talk."

I see this as a success because he has spoken to me, but he's implied that this is going to be a one-way conversation. Wrong.

"No, Sherlock, I wanted to have a _conversation_ with you."

"Mm."

"Dammit, Sherlock, will you sit up and face me!"

My frustrated words ring in the air. He sighs, opens his clear eyes, and sits up. But he still does not look at me.

"Sherlock, what... What's wrong?"

"Don't know to what you're referring, John." He addresses a newspaper he picks up from the coffee table separating us.

"No, no, Sherlock, talk to me." I grab the newspaper and put it back down. He sighs.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong with _you_? You're the one who seems to be going off at the slightest things-"

"You KNOW that's not true! Sherlock, we can't seem to even have a decent conversation anymore, and you won't look me in the eye...!"

He does raise his eyes to mine now, and I just look pleadingly at him.

"_Please_ tell me what's wrong." I implore him. I can tell he's about to break down and tell me, but then his expression changes. He swallows and looks down.

"Nothing's wrong, John." He says in barely a whisper.

"This is about Moriarty, isn't it?" His lip twitches at the name, and his eyes are filled with a sudden fury, so I know I'm right. "What did he do, Sherlock? Surely it can't be so bad you can't tell me...?"

"John, some things are just better left unsaid."

"Bullshit. You tell me what's going on."

Something snaps inside him.

"Why should I do that! What will that accomplish! **Why do you want to know**!"

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!"

Sherlock meets my eyes as his rage dies.

"I know, John."

"I just... Can't stand another moment of you being in such _torment_."

Suddenly, I hate the coffee table separating us. I stand and go to sit next to him on the couch. He drops his gaze to the table.

"Please, Sherlock. Talk to me."

He raises his eyes to mine. They are full of pain. Pain that I wish I could wipe away. Then, he gives.

"Okay." He whispers.

Suddenly, he turns his torso to face me and takes hold of either side of my face.

"Just promise me..." He looks into my eyes with fear. He kisses me once. "Promise me that you love me no matter what." His eyes fill with tears, and a little piece of my heart breaks.

"Of course, Sherlock."

"No no, say it. Please."

I lean in and give him a warm, lingering kiss.

"I promise I will love you no matter what."

He looks slightly relieved. He drops his hands and turns his gaze away.

"Moriarty, he..." He clears his throat. "He wanted... Me... In exchange for you."

I processed this.

"He wanted _you_?"

"Yeah, I know, right?" He chuckles and then sniffs. That's not what I meant, but I think he knows. He lifts his gaze to mine again, only apologies in his eyes. "I just couldn't for a moment contemplate the things he said he would do to you if I didn't... If I didn't..."

A few tears streak down his face.

"If you didn't what?" I ask carefully, but I think I know the answer.

"Well, if I didn't... Let him have me."

Oh my God.

Oh my _God_.

That vicious... Conniving... Perverted _maniac_! He... That was _never_... I can't believe...

"John? John. John, breathe. John!"

I stand.

"He..."

"John, I'm so sorry, I never..."

I turn my gaze down onto him with confusion through the fury.

"What? You're _sorry_? That son of a bitch _did this_!"

"No, John, you have to understand."

"Understand what? That he's _sick? _God, I can't believe-!"

"JOHN." He stands. "_I _fucked _him._"

...What?

"What?"

"_That's_ why I'm sorry. _That's _why I can't look you in the eye. _That's _what's wrong."

My mind is a tangled mess.

"You...?"

"Fucked him, yes, in the ass."

Sherlock is blushing violently, and I would have found that endearing if I could find anything at all.

I need to be alone.

I turn to go to my room, and he doesn't grab my arm as I leave.

"I'm sorry, John."

I close my door on his words.


	8. John Watson, I Love You

God, I feel like rubbish. The self-loathing isn't new, but it's more intense than it has been since John arrived. I'm sitting at the desk with my fingers touching beneath my chin when I hear John enter.

"Sherlock."

Now is no time for superiority, so I open my eyes and turn to look at him. He is shifting his weight and fidgeting with his hands. He obviously doesn't quite know what to say. I take a breath, stand, and go to sit on the couch. I gesture for him to sit next to me, if he wants to be that close to me at all... I am just a little surprised when he immediately sits down.

"I've been thinking... And-"

"John, I truly am sorry." I have to focus on my hands to keep them from flexing and clenching.

"I know, Sherlock, but you really have nothing to be sorry for."

My eyebrows furrow.

"Of course I do. If we had been any more forthright in our agreement, I would have been cheating on you."

"No, no, Sherlock, you were trying to save me."

"I could have found another way."

"You really think Moriarty would have let his whole plan fall apart just because you weren't willing? He... He knew what he wanted and how to get it. At least on that I can commend him."

I am silent. I let my eyes unfocus as I gaze down at the coffee table.

John does not speak either. Instead, he turns my face towards him with a hand on my cheek, and looks into my eyes.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I forgive you."

I swallow. I feel my lips part slightly, which draws his gaze, and it doesn't take a consulting detective to read his intentions. He leans forward and closes the gap between our mouths.

* * *

All thoughts of Moriarty disappear as I am pulled once again into the scent and flavor unique to Sherlock Holmes. I feel more than hear the low moan in the detective's throat as he pushes me back onto the couch.

Sometimes I forget how agile he can be, and this is one of those times. I am caught off-guard when he swings a leg over me, and now it's my turn to moan as his crotch comes into contact with mine. He pulls back to look down into my eyes.

"John Watson," he kisses me once. "...I love you."

* * *

**AN: Blargh, I know this is rubbish. It's short and anticlimactic, and I will probably edit it some time in the future... But it's just been sitting on my computer, waiting for school to slow down so I can REALLY finish it, and the chances of that happening just keep getting smaller and smaller so I just thought I'd upload what I had. Sorry if I disappoint. :/**

**PS: MY REICHENBACH FEELS! DID YOU ALL WATCH IT? DID YOU SEE IT? ASDFGHJKL;  
**


End file.
